From the Ashes
by Daelan
Summary: ((Complete)) Kaidoh-centric. Happy (belated) birthday, Kaidoh! "No one really understood him."


_Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. Which isn't my name. Lawyers – scoot._

_A/N: Um. HAPPY (belated) BIRTHDAY, KAIDOH-KUN! Heh. Sorry I forgot? ;;_

**From the Ashes**

No one really understood him.

This thought came to him, a kind of epiphany, one gloomy Saturday evening. He was out on his usual jog around the neighbourhood, yellow towel draped around his neck. It was dark and overcast there was the promise of rain in the air. He was in a hurry to get home before it started pouring. There were few people around, and those that were there hurried by swiftly, pulling their clothes tightly around them against the chill. There was nothing particularly conducive to have epiphanies, but nonetheless, he had one. One that wasn't all that heartening.

But there was the truth. No one really understood him.

He wore a mask at home, playing the role of the caring big brother and dutiful son. His brother spoke to him most frequently at mealtimes, to ask him to pass the food or some such insignificant thing. For anything else, he usually went to his parents. His father usually spoke to his brother and his mother, rarely to him. Oh, there were the occasional questions on how he was doing in school, in practise, how his training or matches had gone. But for the most part, he was silent and his mother revelled in her image of her perfect family and they spoke through and around him and a bit of him died.

And then at school, he had few, if any, friends. Most of his classmates regarded him as a fool or an idiot. Those who didn't were scared stiff of him. So he went through his lessons quiet and alone. The teachers rarely called on him, no one spoke to him. Sometimes, there would be days when he spoke to no one at all until practise in the afternoon, when he had to respond to his seniors.

It wasn't that he was quiet by nature. He was, slightly, but he loved to talk about things that interested him. Those weren't all that plentiful, for he was the sort of person to love something wholeheartedly. He wasn't so fickle as to jump between hobbies or interests. Snakes, for one, had always interested him until one day he found himself hissing like a snake in irritation at his classmate, and then the habit stuck. He'd been fascinated by the fluid movements of a striking snake, to the point where he based his technique off it. No one really knew, however, exactly how much he loved snakes. He often thought, on the days when his game didn't overwhelm him and he didn't think he'd like to be a professional player – he thought, on those days, that he might like to get a job handling snakes. He wasn't sure exactly what that job would be, but he would have liked it. He was sure he would have. But no one knew, and no one cared to know and no one would ask and he would feel that passion in him die.

Lately, he'd found that snakes hadn't interested him all that much.

He was scared.

Of course, there was always his game to distract him. And he threw himself into it as wholeheartedly and devotedly as he had to his snakes. The feel of it, the movements and the speed. The agility it required, the strength. He underwent an almost inhuman training regiment voluntarily, willingly – all because he wanted to improve his game. He didn't like losing. No one did, even if they took it well, but then he had never taken it well. Losing to him was akin to being murdered. His pride _was_ murdered every time he lost. But he'd borne it, had taken it in stride and had swiftly mastered the game. Until he rarely, if ever, lost. Until he'd known that he would only lose to true masters of the game.

Until he'd lost to a little bratty freshman.

A smile curved his lips, one he would never admit to. The freshman had unwittingly brought the regulars of the team much closer together, and he recognised that. The brat was good, and they all strove to beat him. Even their prodigy had to work hard. And their captain may have been able to beat him, but the older boy had his own reasons for working the freshman hard. It all centred around the twelve-year-old, in the end. He'd brought them together despite their differences, made them really work as a team. Before, it had been Doubles 1 and Singles 3. Now they were part of a whole, moving together in seamless perfection. A sweet harmony.

That he destroyed.

The familiar scowl slipped back into place. He knew that he wasn't as welcome as the other members of the team were. Even a certain senior of his was… just not his concoctions. Even their stoic, unfeeling captain had girls swooning over him. But not he – oh no! He wasn't good-looking, was he? He didn't have any social skills whatsoever. He didn't know how to handle himself well, except on the court. And suddenly, losing wasn't an option anymore and a part of him died every time he did.

But they still worked together, he had to admit that. And well. There was a sort of understanding they all shared. Maybe they weren't as close as their Doubles 1 pair was. But there was certainly that respect for each other that underlay their interactions.

It was odd. He found himself missing the warmth and companionship of his team-mates this day, as he ran in the darkening streets. He knew that he wasn't welcome. He knew that they would only make fun of him. He knew that they were better off without him. But he still missed them. He would have liked to see them, if only once. But without any matches approaching, there were no practises on Saturdays. And yesterday's practise had been cancelled because of the rain. He hadn't seen them in two days, and already he was pining after them like some love-sick girl.

Frowning at himself, he turned up the driveway to his house. He would have liked to see them, sure. Especially today. But he would surely be able to make do. His parents had gone off to his brother's recital after wishing him well in the morning. He'd have the house to himself until eleven. Perhaps he could relax for once and watch television.

He fumbled for the key in his pocket with fingers that trembled slightly in the cold. Now that he had stopped moving, he felt its effects, biting into his skin with icy certainty. He hurriedly unlocked the door and stepped into the dark living room.

And nearly jumped out of his skin when the lights flooded the room and confetti burst and a chorus of eight voices wished him a happy birthday.

Eyes wide, he took in the sight of the living room, decorated (if not all that tastefully) in streamers and balloons. A jug of suspicious green liquid sat on the table. And there they were, arrayed across his living room, and he suddenly understood why his parents had left him alone this day.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, feeling an unfamiliar warmth well up in his heart. And he thanked every deity there was out there. He wasn't too sure what he was thanking them for, but he was happy. And that seemed reason enough.

And then he thought that maybe some people did understand him after all. And like a phoenix, a part of him was born again.

_fin_


End file.
